


Needle And The Thread(Gonna Wind Up Dead)

by Sailing_ShipWreck



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Blood and Gore, Creepy, Emotional Hurt, Haunted Houses, Horror, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Richie Tozier, I Don't Even Know, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'm Sorry, Mentioned Maggie Tozier & Wentworth Tozier, Neibolt Richie Tozier, Neibolt kids, Richie Tozier Angst, Richie Tozier Needs a Hug, Richie Tozier Whump, Richie Tozier is a Mess, Richie Tozier-centric, Sad Ending, Sad Richie Tozier, Scary, Soft Richie Tozier, The House on 28 Neibolt Street (IT), What Have I Done, but there's no link though, i guess?, implied child neglect, it-freeform, this is like really sad, yes the titles is inspired by a shawn mendes song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:22:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22381006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sailing_ShipWreck/pseuds/Sailing_ShipWreck
Summary: Richie found himself in front of 29, Neibolt Street. The more he stared at the house, the more he realized that they were the same. Neglected. Broken. Abandoned. Unloved. Damaged. Destroyed.
Relationships: Maggie Tozier & Richie Tozier, Maggie Tozier & Richie Tozier & Wentworth Tozier, Maggie Tozier/Wentworth Tozier, Richie Tozier & Wentworth Tozier
Comments: 3
Kudos: 86





	Needle And The Thread(Gonna Wind Up Dead)

**Author's Note:**

> Hellooooooo! Here is this. Because i have no idea what it is but uh, enjoy! 
> 
> Yes the title is inspired by Stitches by Shawn Mendes but there's no link. It just fitted well with the story
> 
> Ah and i know the tag says 28, Neibolt Street but i actually checked in the book and it's 29. so yeah.
> 
> I think some parts of this story can be triggering so i advise you to check out the tags before reading this 
> 
> Good reading!!!!

_Richie found himself in front of 29, Neibolt Street. The more he stared at the house, the more he realized that they were the same. Neglected. Broken. Abandoned. Unloved. Damaged. Destroyed. Basically, he had more in common with a haunted house than with the kids at his school._

_A strong feeling of curiosity pulled him forward and he took the first step on the dry ground of the front yard. Like a needle drawn to a magnet. The grass tingled his ankles and the weeds gripped at his flesh, making droplets of blood bead on his skin and trail down into the fabric of his socks. The house looked at him as he advanced, the broken windows akin to huge, hungry eyes watching his every movement. The shadow of the tree in the front yard loomed over him, casting an eerie darkness over his pale skin._

_29, Neibolt Street had a strange aura, a supernatural high-tension charge vibrating all around the property, making it look all the more dangerous and more mysterious. It was like it was calling Richie’s name, begging- no screaming- for him to come and see, to enter and maybe never come out again. It had a powerful energy sparking and bursting like a force-field coming from the inside, escaping from the creaks in between the planks blocking the door and some of the windows. The house was frightening, ghostly, and as much as he wanted to run as far away as possible from it, he also desired to just come in and see. The house in itself was captivating, tempting, but it wasn’t exactly that that made him want to enter. It was more of a feeling, an instinct, something invisible yet strong pulling him forward and making his feet take another step toward the door. Part of it was morbid curiosity, twisted fascination but...but there was something else. He yearned to go in, to see what it was that caught his attention so much, to discover whatever the hell made this house so different from the others. Was it more than just another abandoned house? Was there really something special there? Was he just losing his time?_

_He wanted to know if broken meant worthless. This house was literally seconds away from falling apart, but did it mean it had absolutely no use, that it was empty and hollowed, useless and deserving of its inevitable fate of dying before it had a chance to be saved, to redeem itself in the eyes of the persons judging it meaningless?_

_Without even realizing it, Richie was standing on the porch. Honestly, he didn’t really know how he got there so fast, but he didn’t want to think about it._

_Someone else would have said that damaged found damaged._

_He stepped through the door before he could change his mind. Anyway, he didn’t think he could have. Whatever it was, this force that brought him in, that pulled him forward, it probably wouldn’t let him turn around even if he really wanted to._

_Everyone else in this Godforsaken town was scared to even just approach the house, going as far as to avoid Neibolt Street altogether if it was possible, but maybe there was nothing to be scared of. Maybe it was only a facade, a hard exterior to discourage people of coming nearer, to keep them from trying to pry open its secrets, to protect itself from the cruelty of the world when you dared to show just the tiniest bit of vulnerability. Maybe it only looked scary because it was afraid of the rest of the universe. Maybe it was just hiding behind those creepy walls to prevent itself from not only breaking in appearance but to really get broken beyond repair on the inside as well. Whatever. He would know soon enough._

_He scraped his arm on a splinter on one of the planks barricading the entrance. He barely felt it. His eyes, wide and frightened and curious, swept over the living room and what he could see of the kitchen. A strong smell of rot and humidity, of wood decaying and mold so moldy it was putrefying, assaulted his nostrils. His nose scrunched up in disgust._

_He took another step, only sinking further in the insatiable claws of 29, Neibolt Street. The door slammed shut behind him. A terrified gasp tore itself from his dry throat and he jumped, turning on his heels to stare and try to figure out the cause of the movement._

_Richie knew it wasn’t the wind._

_He felt his heart pound in his chest, his ears, his wrists. He didn’t like it. His nerves were on fire and he was both hyperaware of his surroundings and completely ignorant, blind and deaf to what was happening. He felt the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stand on end, a sudden goosebump rising on his exposed skin, both itching and tingling. A cold shiver shot up his spine and transformed into harsh shudders rattling his shoulders, his fingers agitated with sharp tremors. His T-shirt suddenly felt heavy on his body, felt too tight, burning against his heaving chest. Unease dripped in his heart and he squirmed uncomfortably. Fear crept up from the tense, immobile atmosphere to his heart, where it festered and spread like a drop of poison in a clear glass of pure water. Anxiety pooled in the pit of his stomach. The air was oppressing, felt like it was clinging to him, shrinking on his frame and adapting itself to his form, leaving no place for him to move. He felt trapped, paralyzed. His breathing came out in ragged rasps, the only sound breaking the silence apart from the occasional macabre creaking of the stairs or floor. The silence in itself was sinister and was doing nothing to reassure him._

_He was still facing the door, frozen on the spot, exposing his back to whatever was lurking in the darkness of the house. He glimpsed ominous shadows moving and shifting from the corner of his eyes. He squeezed them shut, counting on his eyelids to hide his sight from the horrors that 29, Neibolt Street had to offer. He regretted his choice when he felt a hot, humid breath at the base of his neck._

_Cold fingers latched onto his right shoulder, one by one, the movement slow and deliberate. Richie stiffened, his stomach twisting in fear, as he waited to be killed. Instead, the grasp on his shoulder tightened until it hurt and made him turn around so he was face-to-face with whoever or whatever it was. A scream was ready to escape his lips but died down in his throat, a surprised gasp coming out instead. His eyes widened comically behind his glasses, refusing to believe what he was seeing._

_His parents._

_Wentworth and Maggie Tozier were both standing in front of him, their chin held high in the air in a severe manner and their shoulders tense and squared up._

_Richie’s eyes landed on his father’s hands. The boy felt horror grow and burn and shine in his chest like a dying star._

_If you ever asked Wentworth Tozier about his hands, he would always answer that they were the part of his body he was the proudest of. Went, contrarily to most other men, didn’t have huge hands with short, stocky fingers. They weren’t calloused or strong and clumsy. No, Wentworth’s hands were thin, his fingers long and precise and steady. They were his best asset at work. As a dentist, he needed to be meticulous, tidy. Thanks to his hands, he never scratched someone’s gums by accident and he never missed to scrap every little remain of tartar plaque on a client’s teeth. Every day, he was complimented on his precision and his hands so wonderful that he could’ve been a neurosurgeon._

_Now, Richie was staring at a mess, at something terrible. One of his father’s hand was swollen, deformed, almost two times its original size. The skin was red, glowing and glistening. It looked stretched like it was recovered by a too-small latex glove that was about to rip open. It was so big that the fingers were barely noticeable anymore, only tiny protuberances jutting out of the monstrous thing that was once a human hand._

_Went’s other hand wasn’t any better, probably even more disgusting than the first. The skin was dead, a colorfully morbid mix of black, blue, grey and yellowish-white. It was littered with suppurating wounds oozing pus and blood. Maggots were squirming in the rotten lesions. One finger was cut to the knuckle, strips of decaying skin dangling from the stump._

_Richie felt a wave of nausea make his heart rise in his throat at the sight. Unable to bear it a second more, the boy turned his attention to his mother. If you asked Maggie the same question as to her husband, she would say her hair was her best feature._

_It cascaded in peaceful waves to her waist like silk, airily floating around her like an aura. It was soft and smelled like wildflowers. Her hair was as black as raven feathers, shining with dark blueish hues when the light hit them right. It made her pale skin and deep blue eyes seem more healthy, more alive. It made other women turn green in jealousy._

_Richie felt sick just looking at it. Her hair was now cut wildly, some strands short, at ear-length, some others still going down to her hips. It was dirty and greasy, tangled so much that Richie doubted it could ever come back to its original state. Vines were intertwined in the curls, the thorns gripping and pulling painfully. Flies were hovering around her head and a terrible smell was emitted from there. The boy couldn’t describe it with any other word than death. It smelled like years of slow decay and corpses and cadavers breaking free from their graves. He didn’t even want to know what was hidden underneath the mess that was her curls to create such an odor._

_Richie had inherited from both his father’s pale and long hands and his mother’s dark and curly hair._

_He stared at his parents in disbelief, feeling shockwaves of fear riffle through his body. For the first time since he entered 29, Neibolt Street, he wanted to get out. He wanted to run and hide and pretend nothing ever happened more than anything in the world. He was **aching** to turn back, to escape through the door, to flee from the terrible curse of this house. But he couldn’t._

_He was stuck on the spot again, paralyzed, trapped in his own body. His mind was screaming at him to move, but his limbs wouldn’t respond to the danger signals his brain was sending. Alarm bells were ringing in his ears, deafening and shrill and piercing through his skull like sharp ice-picks. The racket of his thoughts was thunderous and he screwed his eyes shut and clasped his hands over his ears, feeling as though his head was going to explode. He felt as if there was a time-bomb in his head, the tick-tacking counting the time before the detonation. The incessant beeps of the countdown shrieked repeatedly, the creaking of the house was louder than ever, the thumps of his heart pulsed like a speaker blasting a bass solo at full-volume, all of this mixing together into an overload of sounds._

_He fell to his knees, collapsing on the ground as his panicked thoughts collided into each other and swirled together until it became **too much.**_

_Then, **nothing.** _

_The noises disappeared in the snap of a finger, replaced by complete silence. The air seemed to freeze, time seemed to stop, the atmosphere became still, tense, unmoving. As if all the air had retired from the house, condemning all things to die and allowing ghosts to take their place. There wasn’t place to move, there wasn’t place to breathe. If the house had been alive, its lungs would have just emptied, dooming it to definite death. Deciding to cut the thread of its life, destining it to end unredeemed. Cutting short the line of fate that could have saved it._

_The already dead house had just died._

_However, the show needed to go on. It wasn’t finished. The grand finale was still missing._

_Richie got up. Held his breath. Waited. His parents stared at him, unwavering, motionless. **Lifeless**. Until they finally moved._

_When his parents turned around, Richie finally saw what was behind them. It was him. Except that it wasn’t. The glasses were the same, the hair as well, the clothes, the height, the traits. But the eyes weren’t chocolate brown like they should be. They were milky white, comatose, staring into the distance blankly. Seeing but not seeing. Blind to happiness and love, but way too aware of horror and pain._

_Then, he noticed the thread sewing the mouth shut. The maggots crawling in the holes in the face. The joints popping out like a wooden doll. But the worst was the strings. The strings attached to each finger, controlling the thing like a pathetic puppet._

_His parents moved closer to the thing until they were standing at its sides. Maggie started to card her fingers through its hair, her eyes loving and caring, for once looking alive instead of dull and empty. Wentworth reached over to the controller of the puppet’s strings, assuming the role of marionettist._

_The father, the mother and the doll, the three of them together, looked like the perfect family, even with their macabre appearance. Little monsters brought together in the perfect combination of sick obsession and pure love, of horror and sordid charm, of repulsion and attractiveness. Fitting together like puzzle pieces. Directly pulled out of a mix between a lovely painting and a horror novel._

_“Mom! Dad! It’s me!” Richie said, trying to get his parents’ attention. “The real me! Look at me! Please…” He trailed off, his voice desperate and pleading. Maggie and Wentworth didn’t move an inch. They continued taking care of the puppet, giving it all their love and attention, something that Richie never seemed to be able to gain. However, the thing raised its head slowly and its cloudy white eyes bored into his own. They stared for an eternity, Richie doing his best to contain his tears and the doll watching him intently, not even blinking. Richie wasn’t sure it could, anyway. The puppet’s mouth moved into a smile, deliberately taking its time. The dark thread pulled on each lip as they parted into a wide grin. The skin stretched dangerously, protesting against the force trying to undo the so carefully done stitching work. The puppet slowly brought a hand up and raised its index finger, placing it in front of its mouth in the universal gesture of keeping silence. The thing’s eyes seemed to have some sort of life in them for the first time as they shone mischievously. A spark of wicked amusement animated its usually blank orbs. Richie felt an intense wave of horror grow tumultuous in his stomach, threatening to transform into a tsunami of fear. The puppet’s smile grew wider and the flesh ripped under the pressure of being pulled apart. Blood oozed out of the wounds, dripping in its mouth and staining its teeth in red. The bloody thread fell on the floor with finality._

_Excruciating pain exploded in Richie’s face and his hands flew up to his mouth in reaction. He could feel the needle and the thread sewing his mouth shut even though there was nothing in front of him. A scream tore itself off of his lungs and his lips parted to let it escape. He didn’t know what was real anymore, if everything was just an immoral creation of his wild imagination or a dream or even real life. All he knew was that it hurt. It hurt, and there was nothing else real for him except the pain, pain that was so intense that it erased everything else, whited out the house on Neibolt Street, the entire world, the whole universe out of his sight and mind. The agony intensified until it was unbearable and his fingers clawed at the invisible thread torturing him. When the pain reached its peak, he tried to call for help, anything, but nothing came out. It was impossible._

_He was doomed to silence for eternity._

**Author's Note:**

> Hellooooo again! Tell me what you thought of this in the comments! I love you all and thanks a lot for reading!!


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